


Want

by dessert_first



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-12
Updated: 2008-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dessert_first/pseuds/dessert_first
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser has thought it over a thousand times, gone over every single interaction, every crumb of information, every scrap or clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> This story was truly a team effort. Team Whimsy's delightful counsel is an integral part of anything you might find in here that works. Thanks so much to the absolutely heroic [](http://green-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**green_grrl**](http://green-grrl.livejournal.com/) and [](http://spuffyduds.livejournal.com/profile)[**spuffyduds**](http://spuffyduds.livejournal.com/), [](http://torra.livejournal.com/profile)[**torra**](http://torra.livejournal.com/), [](http://catwalksalone.livejournal.com/profile)[**catwalksalone**](http://catwalksalone.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zabira.livejournal.com/profile)[**zabira**](http://zabira.livejournal.com/) for multiple betas, psychotherapy and cheerleading. The lovely [](http://lamentables.livejournal.com/profile)[**lamentables**](http://lamentables.livejournal.com/), [](http://simplystars.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplystars**](http://simplystars.livejournal.com/), [](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/profile)[**caersmane**](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/), [](http://umbrella-half.livejournal.com/profile)[**umbrella_half**](http://umbrella-half.livejournal.com/), [](http://aingeal8c.livejournal.com/profile)[**aingeal8c**](http://aingeal8c.livejournal.com/), [](http://capt-spork.livejournal.com/profile)[**capt_spork**](http://capt-spork.livejournal.com/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=alex52324)[****](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=alex52324)provided brainstorming, read-throughs, encouragement and inspiration. I'm so grateful to you all, and to the rest of our wonderful team. And, as always, I am grateful to my dear[](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/) **nos4a2no9** , who even as the leader of the opposition was gracious enough to encourage me and wish me well in my writing, and whose sage writing advice I always try to keep in mind in any of my efforts. BTW, the original prompt was " I never said they were poisonous," which got worked into the text for fun.

It all started… well. It's impossible to say when it all started. Fraser has thought it over a thousand times, gone over every single interaction, every crumb of information, every scrap or clue. But the very nature of the matter is what makes it so difficult to find anything out of the ordinary.

Fraser keeps searching the haphazard tangle of his memories though, because he thinks, _If I could only understand. If I could only see._

He doesn't know what follows on the heels of that thought. If he could understand, then what? If he could see, what would come of it? What would change? How would it make things right?

How would anything ever be right again?

  
**At First Sight**

The blond man was there again when Fraser passed the bakery on his morning run with Diefenbaker. Fraser only just caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye as the man walked into the shop. One blink and he was gone, as if he'd never been there. For the hundredth time, Fraser wondered if he should try to catch up to the man, have a word.

He kept running.

***

Ray had told Fraser he needed to get a date, to get a life.

"You gotta stop hiding yourself away, Benny," he said over dinner at Hai Hong, gesturing emphatically with a loaded set of chopsticks. "Don't you want to find someone?"

Fraser blinked. "I beg your pardon, Ray?"

"A date, Benny, you need a date." Ray shrugged his Armani-clad shoulders impatiently. "You know, those things people go on to get to know each other better. Hey, you could ask Elaine out."

"Ray…"

Bob chose that moment to appear, clad in trapping gear and nodding emphatically. "The Yank's right, son. She'd give you bright, handsome children, and the two of you could train them up as fine officers to boot."

"Do you mind?" Fraser snapped. His father's fixation on grandchildren was unfailingly annoying. He really wished the man would learn to mind his own business.

Ray looked struck.

Schooling his irritation, Fraser tried to be more receptive to his partner's conversation.

Bob gave a sniff and went off to inspect a Seven Delights platter at a nearby table. "Oh, at times like these I do miss eating, son. It's a terrible thing to be impervious to indigestion yet unable to make the most of it."

"Or, uh, Diane, you could ask Diane," Ray continued, running a hand over his thinning hair as he frowned in thought. "I know that thing where she turns invisible is a little weird, but she's a nice girl, right? And it's not like you're a bigot, are you?"

"Of course not, Ray!" Fraser was appalled. "Surely you know me better than that. All humans are our siblings."

"Or Nina, down in Records," Ray barreled on. "They love you down in Records."

"I hardly think—"

"Everybody loves you Benny, you know that. Stop being all modest."

"Ray, please." Fraser tugged at his suddenly stifling collar. "I don't think—that is, you're greatly overstating the case. At any rate, even if that were true, I'm not…" He thought briefly, painfully, of Victoria, a flash of dark hair and large eyes, a gunshot, a thousand regrets. He carried the burden of his guilt over Victoria always, always, lodged as deeply as the bullet inside him, and he couldn't imagine letting it go. In truth, he didn't _want_ anyone else. And what he really wanted from her, he could never have.

Perhaps his father had been right. Sometimes there were no second chances.

Ray was watching him, chewing thoughtfully on his lo mein, but he didn't say anything. Under the table, Dief whined, and Ray snuck him another dumpling.

***

It had been late fall, he remembers that much. She was pale and fine-featured, with large eyes, long dark curls and a smile that sang.

He'd knocked over her groceries, and when he apologized, she forgave him.

***

The blond man was in the park, walking by the duck pond, the sunlight making a halo of his hair. Fraser felt that inexplicable urge again, to follow him, to speak to him, to track down this one mystery in his neatly ordered life. He couldn't begin to fathom why.

He stuffed the urge back down and watched Diefenbaker chasing ducks.

Perhaps he was just lonely. For a moment, he let himself wish he wasn't.

***

Ray shook his head, exasperated. "I never said they were _poisonous_. I just said it was unsanitary. Licking evidence, as I may have pointed out once or twice in the past, has got to be unsanitary." He spoke up to avoid being drowned out by Tony and Maria's ongoing argument about the George Foreman grill.

"Unsanitary, Ray?"

He grinned. "Yeah, unsanitary. That's like a nice way of saying 'disgusting'."

"Ah," Fraser smiled. "Most obliging of you to look for a nicer way to say it."

"Yeah, well. I'm an obliging guy."

"I've often thought so," Fraser said politely, and knew Ray didn't miss the way Frannie, listening in from across the table, snorted loudly.

"He sure is these days," she said, and passed the polenta.

***

She smiled at him, out there on the street, groceries spilled all around the ground, and gravely said, "I forgive you."

It halted Fraser's flow of apologies, and he looked up from where he crouched at her feet, startled.

Her smile took on a tinge of sympathy. "I really do," she said.

It was ridiculous; it was absolutely ridiculous that he should feel a sudden, sharp pain in his chest, should be frozen, a can of peas in his hand, unable to draw breath for a split second.

She knelt beside him, and took the can from his fingers.

***

It was while Fraser was standing guard at the Consulate that he got a good long look at the blond man. He stood on the opposite corner, hands fisted in the pockets of his worn jeans, idly staring off in the direction of the Consulate. The muscles of his forearms, bared by his t-shirt, were bunched from the effort of his curled fists, and a thin metal-bead bracelet adorned one wrist. He hunched in on himself slightly, as if he were cold.

Fraser stood at his post, eyes blank, face smooth, and _wondered_.

***

Ray was sprawled back in his chair with his feet up on the desk, chewing on a toothpick as he looked over the Benedetti file. "You figure it was the brother, Frase?"

Fraser blinked.

The chair clattered down and Ray's impeccably shod feet landed firmly on the floor. "Hello, Benny? Earth to Benny? You like the brother for this, or what?"

"It does seem likely," Fraser said, thinking of Mario's last remarks to them. He'd seemed unusually jealous of his brother's clairvoyance. The latest laws regarding… well, regarding the differently abled had led to some resentments in the community.

Ray tossed his toothpick into the trash.

***

"Would you—" he blurted, her cool fingers grazing his over the half-forgotten can of peas. He wanted—he wondered—"Could I buy you dinner? To make up for all this."

Her eyes widened, and she stood abruptly. "I don't think that's such a good idea." She shoved her hands in her pockets.

"Oh, of course." He cursed his stupidity, placing the last of the items in her bag. He'd just wanted… he'd so wanted to keep her company a little longer. It was foolish. "I'm sorry, that was terribly—"

"Hey, no harm, no foul," she said, palms up. "It's just, you know, forgiveness is free. Dinner… that costs something."

***

The cheeseburger appeared on Fraser's desk as if summoned out of thin air, lettuce and tomato nestled under the whole wheat bun, a plentiful slather of mustard peeking out. Fraser was famished. "Thank you, Ray! How did you know I'd been craving one of these?"

Ray smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "You looked like you were hungry."

***

Fraser found himself thinking of the blond man at the oddest moments, looking for him to be hovering there, a sight just visible in the corner of his eye. He usually wasn't there, but sometimes… sometimes he was.

One time Fraser caught him laughing. Dief ran off in the middle of downtown and ran straight for the man, almost knocking him over in his enthusiasm. The man laughed, his face momentarily unguarded, and it transformed him utterly. Kneeling to pet Dief, he looked lit from within. He looked up briefly, caught sight of Fraser, and stood up. He shoved his hands back in his pockets, nodded politely, and disappeared into the crowd before Fraser could cross the street to reach him.

"You were very familiar with that man," Fraser observed to Diefenbaker.

Dief looked decidedly shifty for a moment, then expressed a sincere and most urgent need for donuts.

***

For a moment, she looked so like Victoria it hurt. Literally, in the pit of his stomach, in his chest, a sharp, jagged pain of recognition and a darker pang of want.

She stared at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "I could do it," she said softly. "I could be what you want." Her slender bracelet flashed silver for an instant, then slipped back down into her sleeve as she raised her arm to tuck away a loose sprig of curls.

***

He didn't see the gunshot coming; he couldn't imagine why he didn't see the gunshot coming. One minute Ray was standing beside him, hands fisted in the pockets of his elegant wool coat and a winter hat jammed over his balding head, scowling at their suspect. The next he was stepping in front of Fraser, then crumpling suddenly, as if made of paper.

Fraser leaped forward and subdued the shooter, mentally cursing himself for being too slow, cursing the shooter, cursing Ray for stepping in front of another bullet for him. After Greta Garbo, this was beginning to become a habit. The perpetrator restrained, he turned to Ray, cupping his familiar cheek. Ray was looking pale, his green eyes clouded above the strong nose.

"Turn him around." Ray grabbed Fraser's sleeve. "The perp, turn him _around_ , Fraser."

"What—"

Ray's voice sounded oddly rusty, but he pitched it low. "He can't see me now. I can't hold on, okay? Just do it."

Fraser hurried to comply, then turned back to his friend. Ray was frowning, sweat beading on his brow.

"Stay with me, Ray," Fraser said urgently, patting his hand.

"Wanted to," Ray murmured, blood oozing out of his shoulder wound—just a shoulder wound, too high to have hit anything vital, just put pressure on it, put pressure on it. "Don't think you'll want that after this."

"Don't be silly," Fraser ordered, fishing about for Ray's cell phone with one hand while applying pressure to the wound with the other. He called for backup, turning away from Ray briefly to describe the severity of his wound.

When he turned back, Ray was moving feebly where he lay on the ground. "Can't hold on, Benton-buddy," he muttered. "Sorry." He gestured vaguely with one hand, and Fraser caught a flash of silver at his wrist. He caught hold of Ray's hand to examine it, frowning. The metal-bead bracelet seemed oddly out of place on his friend. In his grip, Ray's hand seemed to… to _shift_ , the shape of it, the precise color of the skin, the hair on the arm turning sparse and golden. A trick of the light, surely.

When Fraser looked back at Ray's face, it… wasn't.

The blond man was looking back at him, lying there in Ray's clothes, Ray's gunshot wound bleeding on his shoulder, apology written in the lines of his face. It wasn't long before the paramedics arrived and loaded the blond man into the ambulance, taking care with the wound soaking through his elegant wool coat.

Fraser stared after them in horror.

***

"I could," she said, with something close to regret. "I really could."

"I'm sorry," Fraser said. "I don't know what I was thinking. Of course you wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't I?" Her smile quirked, a wry twist of her lips. "Let's just say you wouldn't want to see what I look like in the mornings."

***

**Second Glances**

"Constable, you return," Welsh says heavily. "In search of some answers, I would imagine."

"Sir?" Fraser knows he looks a sight. He'd wandered the lakefront for hours, thinking back days, weeks, months. Thinking back to Ray's—the real Ray's—the imposter's? That cryptic phone call Fraser had received while he was on vacation. Ray had said he wouldn't be coming to pick Fraser up at the airport. He'd said—he'd said he'd stay in touch. And then, when Fraser had arrived at the station, Ray had been so glad to see him, he'd hugged him, he'd said he'd missed him…

Was that when it began? When did it happen? _Why_ did it happen?

He couldn't piece it together. He could not.

Welsh leans forward across his desk, gesturing at Fraser to sit. Fraser stands. He holds his hat in his hands, keeps his posture picture-perfect, and waits.

The lieutenant sighs. "There's an operation going on. This operation comes from _way_ up the ladder. Details are kinda sketchy, but all we need to know is Ray Vecchio has gone deep under cover with the mob. Now, to protect his identity, we have to make believe that this _other_ guy is Ray Vecchio."

"But how—"

"Somebody owed me a favor in the Bureau of Enhanced Officers." Welsh taps the side of his nose. "This guy, he can do things, he can _be_ things, but he's not so good with certain aspects of playing bad guys. He mostly goes undercover replacing witnesses, informants, people at risk. He's covering for Vecchio so Vecchio can do his job, and I want you to give him a fair shot. He's a real good cop."

***

It's two days before Fraser can bring himself to go to the hospital.

Frannie is sitting by the hospital bed when Fraser arrives. When she sees him at the door, she darts a worried glance at the blond man, peacefully sleeping, and rises to meet Fraser. Grabbing his arm, she drags him outside.

"Hey, Frase," she says, sounding subdued.

"Francesca," Fraser can't keep a note of surprise out of his voice. "How did you—"

She sniffs, drawing herself up to her full, if slight, height. "I know when somebody's not my brother!"

Fraser flinches as if struck.

"Not—not that you wouldn't—I mean, if—" she trails off, helplessly. "He was too nice to me, okay? I mean, I love my brother, and I know he loves me, but… he's my _brother,_ you know? Brothers are supposed to mess with you a little. But all of a sudden, there he is acting like those brothers on TV, like I used to imagine when I was a little girl. And you know what?" She shakes her head, half a smile on her face. "It was _weird_. Tony, Maria and the kids don't know, but Welsh came clean with me and Ma."

"And you've been coming to visit him?"

Frannie sticks out her chin, defiant. "He's looking out for my brother, so I'm gonna look out for him. Just, be nice to him, okay? He feels real bad about you having found out like you did. And listen, Ray's gonna be okay. He's tough, and he's out there somewhere working to make things better."

There is no earthly reason why Frannie saying that should be comforting, but somehow, it is. "Thank you, Francesca," he says.

Blinking hard, she throws back her shoulders and leans up to kiss Fraser's cheek. "Ma'll be waiting for me. She's been cooking up this feast for me to bring over here, since _Ray_ " she looks at Fraser meaningfully, "doesn't like hospital food. He hasn't been eating much."

He nods, and watches her walk away. Long after she's gone, he stands out in the hall, gathering himself together until he finally knocks twice on the half-open door and goes in.

The blond man looks tired, lines etched more deeply into his face than Fraser remembers from his stolen glances. He is staring out the window, but he turns his head in Fraser's direction when Fraser enters the room. "Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," Fraser echoes.

***

Fraser has always known that the world is full of mysteries and little ironies. He'd long wanted to talk to the blond man, to catch up to this quicksilver specter, and now that he has, all Fraser wants to ask him about is Ray Vecchio. He'd envisioned that procuring those answers would be a long and painstaking process. Fraser would have to use his detective skills, question the man as he would an uncooperative witness, dig deep to find the truth.

In reality, the man is surprisingly forthcoming. He answers all of Fraser's questions promptly, almost gladly—the wheres, the whens, the hows.

Until there is only one question left.

"There was a woman," Fraser says slowly. "She had long hair, and she… she wore…" he gestures at the blond man's bracelet, silver beads encircling his pale wrist.

The blond man nods. "Last fall. You spilled the groceries."

"So it _was_ you." Fraser turns away to face the window, gathering his thoughts, searching for elusive peace before he does something hasty.

"I'm sorry."

Fraser whirls around. _"Why?"_

The man closes his eyes. "It was what you wanted."

"What?"

"You wanted her to forgive you, but you didn't want to see her again. So I gave you the next best thing, closest I could come. It was supposed to be a gift. Something you really wanted." He smiles a little, as if to himself. "You don't want a whole lot. This conversation, these answers, have been the most you've ever wanted from me, and that's what I do. I give people what they want."

"You can… sense that?"

He nods. "I can feel it. I can _hear_ it, all the time, from everyone. Everyone always wants something. That's how I can become what people want me to be, but it's also what trips me up."

"Trips you up?" Fraser echoes.

"Most people, no matter how much they appreciate someone, how much they love them, how great they think the other person is… there's always at least one little thing they wish they could change. Some way of behaving, some habit or action." The man starts to shrug, then winces as the movement jars his injured shoulder. "Could be little, could be big. But it's what they want, and I can feel it. So I do it, and eventually they figure out, what the hell? Donnie _never_ used to take out the trash, compliment my shoes, turn in his reports on time. It adds up. The smart ones know I'm not who I say I am."

Fraser tries not to show how that stings. "Couldn't you… _not_ do what they wanted? To be safe?"

The man grimaces. "You ever try to ignore a ringing telephone? Just sit there and try not to pick it up. I can do it, but I can't keep doing it forever. It's exhausting. Sooner or later, I crack, and I don't even realize I'm doing it. That's why they don't give me the hard jobs. I'm usually just a place-holder for other people, like your friend Vecchio."

For the first time, Fraser wonders what it's like for the blond man to be in this position—to always be in this position. "I'm—" he clears his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry if my demands—"

The man snorts. "Your demands. You got no demands, Fraser. All you ever wanted Vecchio to be was Vecchio, so I was. That's why you couldn't tell. You genuinely love that guy just the way he is, and you have _no idea_ how rare that is. That's why I fell…" he cuts himself off, stares at his hands, strong and capable-looking. "I only ever met one person that I couldn't hear what they wanted. And I married her. She, uh, she left me, but, you know. We hung in there for a lot of years, and it was…" He looks right at Fraser, and his blue eyes suddenly light up with remembered affection, making him look oddly beautiful. "It was so damn peaceful. You're the closest I've ever come to that."

At a loss, Fraser scratches his eyebrow. "Ah. Well, that's…"

"I'll change back," the man assures him. "I'll be like Vecchio again real soon. It's just the pain and the drugs make it hard to concentrate long enough to keep a different shape, but I'll do it as soon as I get outta here."

"Throw him a bone, son," Bob Fraser appears in his dress uniform, sagely peering at the man from his bedside. "The Yank means well. Why, I remember a fellow back in the Territories, could turn himself into a—"

"Well, then," Fraser says, as heartily as he can manage, ignoring his father's unexpected appearance. "Then I'll just, ah, leave you. To recover."

"Yeah," the man says. "Listen, Fraser. I'm real sorry I'm not him. I know how badly you want me to be."

Fraser can't imagine why the man's words bring such a knot to his throat. He nods tightly, and walks away.

***

**Third Eye**

Someday, Fraser will be ready to accept this new partner for who he is. He will wish him to not look so much like Ray Vecchio while they are working, because that makes it so much harder to properly grieve the loss of his friend, but he will understand why the charade is necessary. And he will want to know who the blond man is, his loyalty and open heart making him even more fascinating than he was as a mysterious stranger.

He will learn that the man's name really is Ray, meet his ex-wife and parents, watch him face his demons and regain his faith in himself. He'll get to see him off-duty, in his element, wearing his own lovely face and lean, strong body as he coaches young boxers, and dances, and plays chess, a ridiculously unflattering pair of glasses perched on his nose (a full seven millimeters smaller than Ray Vecchio's). He will grow to cherish their duet.

And throughout, Fraser will feel something long buried begin to thaw and stretch.

One day after work they'll go to the apartment Ray moves into after spending enough time living at the Vecchio house to establish his cover. And Fraser will, half-drunk on camaraderie, a particularly delicious pizza delivered by Sandor and a soaring hockey victory on TV, break all his own rules.

"Could you do it?" he will ask, looking in fascination at Ray's smiling face, the happiest he's seen him. "Could you become her again?"

Ray's smile will disappear instantly, falter and reappear again. He won't answer in words, just get up from the couch, close his eyes, and… and _change_. His body will flow like magic, a dance of energy hovering all along the edges of his skin, charging the air. His hair will darken and grow long, his face shift, his body become shorter, angles softening into curves. When he opens his eyes, they will be a different shade of blue, and he will look out at Fraser from Victoria's beautiful face.

He will stand there quietly in his willowy new body, swallowed up in the now too-large Bulls t-shirt and jeans.

Fraser will look at her, his beautiful Victoria, who was never really his at all. He will think of making love to her soft body, her familiar curves, and how she will respond so exquisitely, so perfectly, just exactly as Fraser would want her to.

And he will step forward, and kiss her high, pale forehead, and say, "Goodbye, Victoria."

When he pulls away, Ray will be looking up at him through Victoria's eyes, a lost look on his delicate new face.

"Could you be yourself now, please?" Fraser will ask, and Ray will beam at him, incredulous, delighted, and become himself again.

And that will be exactly, exactly what Fraser wants.

  
End.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story sums up a lot of things I have thought and felt about Fraser and Kowalski, and this is kind of my love letter to them, and to the fandom, and to Here's Luck's amazing In the Mirror vid, which I had on constant loop through just about the whole process. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
